


half 'n half

by surely_silly



Series: Spooktacular [4]
Category: Danny Phantom, Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surely_silly/pseuds/surely_silly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words change over time, this of which you can be assured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. wonder skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't promise much to this, but enjoy =w=

"What the hell?"

Its thin, gangly limbed, and young. A  _teenager_. High noon blue narrows upon contact. Its not dressed to impress, so informal it hurts compared to Crowley's suits. Shaggy, unkempt hair falls over its head like a rat's nest. Dean thinks its perhaps the most bedraggled demon he has ever seen, and he's seen a lot of roughed up demons in his line of work. Sure, he had been the cause but still. What high ranking demon doesn't dress its meat suit to the nines?

This one apparently.

It wrinkles its nose, inhaling deeply, and takes one step forward. It ripples with a full-body shiver, and pauses. It glances lazily to the floor, and looks back up at him, and Castiel lining the sides each in turn. It lingers on Castiel with a thoughtful gleam in its eyes before settling back on Dean. The devil's trap is stark against the concrete, and it merely frowns at them.

"What the hell, yourself," it drawls, breaking the silence.

Dean really wants to break its face in. "You've got information, so we've been told. We want it. Among other things."

It shrugs its shoulders, pushing its hands into its pockets like its got naught a worry in the world.

Well. They'll just have to change that won't they.

With a jerked nod to Castiel, Dean smirks. Its eyes narrow to slits of glittering blue, following the motion toward the angel just as he pulls a long chain. There's a crank, and a soft hiss of metal against metal.

The demon jerks its head back.

"Heard human blood works  _wonders_  on the skin."

The blood rushes down with a wet  _slop_. It coats the demon from head to toe, running down its head and onto the floor, and it  _howls_ in rage as its skin slides off like dirt. Distorted reality washes away with slabs of illusioned clothes, and magicked skin. Black hair bleeds white, skin revealed as a dark grey-brown shade; two dark horns wash into view above suddenly sharp-pointed ears. Black and white clothes appear from under the blood, a satanic cross appearing from beneath the flow as it ebbs.

The sigils on the floor glow, and the fallen blood recedes into it; the lines of dried paint twist and contort before resting in new forms, the demon and area clean from blood and ruined magick.

"Feel like talking now, Cambion?" Dean eggs on. "Or should I call you Daniel?"

It laughs.

Falling back onto the floor, it bares rows of sharp teeth and a split tongue. A spear ended tail arches into view, sweeping sideways and near its shoulder. It laughs, the sound throaty and echoing. White gloves curl sharp fingers into dark clothed knees, and noxious green eyes widen as they land back on Dean.

"Ohh.  _Ohh,_ " Daniel sneers, lips curled, and eyes curving to bright slits. "Do I ever want to know who told you that beauty secret. I must thank them  _ **personally**._ "

Castiel shifts minutely out the corner of the elder Winchester's eye, strangely quiet. The angel's face is hard, like it's cut from stone and just as blank. Dean grimaces inwardly at what he might see his human eyes can't.

Taking a pause, Dean makes a show of thinking it about it, rubbing lightly at his chin as if in thought. "Mmm, nah. I think I'll keep that one to myself. Maybe if you're a good boy, I'll throw you a bone, how does that sound?" he mocks, eyes hard.

A flicker of simmering rage surfaces in the radioactive. It disappears as quick as it came, but Dean notes it. "Oh, okay," it relents, face titling into one hand, the other waving forward dismissively as it leans back. "You've caught me. Now what, hm? A deal? Is that what you want? I can most  _certainly_ make a deal."

"Something like that," Dean snaps back. "I want Kevin's soul. You're gonna go get it from whatever bastard's dragged him down and maybe, just maybe, we won't gank your ass."  _A spirit blessed stake to the chest sounds like a nice reward._

It looks positively  _fucking_   ** _delighted_**  at the demand. "Oh, you want little prophet boy, do you? But he's been having so much fun with us downstairs," the Cambion cooes, grinning from ear to ear. "It'd be a shame if he had to ditch early, wouldn't you say?"

Dean takes a step back as if hit. "You _mother **fucker**_ ," he snarls.

"Didn't you know," it chirps, eyes wide with murderous glee, "I collect what Prophet souls I can. Or did... Crowley not mention that?"

He tries, he really does, but Dean's so thrown he can't stop the surprise that crosses his face.

"Oh Crowley, Crowley, Crowley," Daniel sighs, disappointment fading into a slow grin. "Demons, can't trust them, am I right?"

There's a beat, time slowing to a crawl, and the Cambion's tail whips sideways; it carves a line into the concrete, digging up the paint and solid ground, and Dean feels his heart stutter.

And, then a hand grips his arm  _hard_ , and they're gone, the frantic flap of feathers roaring in his ears.


	2. walk of shame

The tail arches, dangles just in front of his eyes, and sways softly side to side. The length tightens around his neck, and he stumbles along, shoes scuffing along the pitch floor, holding back his gags at the pain. Eyes forward. Knows what this is, feels the glitter of eyes, thousands of eyes upon them,  _him_.

"Some little birds told me something interesting yesterday," he chirps, visage thin, horns catching the light from the flickering hellfire. Bone white hair, a single gleaming green eye from over his shoulder. "Color me surprised when your name came up."

The fear is nothing new, but it's been such a  _long_ time since he's had reason to even fear something. Crowley hates it.  _Hates_ it. But. He fists his hands at his sides, fights the want to claw at the tail coiled round his neck. He's come so far, so  _far,_ and, well, there's no one to blame but himself.

"Ah, Daniel, love," he starts, rasps, croaks," I'm sure it was only something good, mistaken otherwise."

It's like a noose, and he chokes when the spear tip slices forward, stilling naught a breath away from his left eye.

"Don't lie to me," he says, voice flat, and to Crowley's eyes the shadows lick at his heels.

He falters at a loud, laughing snarl from behind them, and screws his eyes shut.


	3. precious

It's a tarnished white cradled in his hands, trembles under his touch. Leans into it. Needy, greedy. Desperate.

He smooths one finger along its side, and the soul quivers.

"Little Prophet boy," Daniel croons, breath soft over the dying light. "Do you want to go home?"


	4. sinking

They have no right to look at you that way. None.  _None whatsoever._ But they do, grief and anger coloring their eyes, faces drawing hard and pale. They just have  _no_  fucking right.

 _You got me killed,_ you want to scream.

 _You let me die,_ you want to rage.

 _Did you even care, before,_ you want to snarl.

"Kevin?"

You draw away from the doorway, hands in fists at your sides, a roiling mess. Turn your back, slink into the motel parking lot, bite back the screams and tears. Stifle the rage, and madness. The hunger to see them hurt, a dark, gaping chasm where all that—that  _knowledge_  used to be.

" _Kevin_!"

The dam breaks, and just  _why?_ Why you, why them, why Mother, and why Channing. It's fire bright behind your eyes, and you whirl around, face drawing into an ugly snarl, and shutter your eyes black.

Oh, oh how  _sweet_ this is. The fear is palpable, delicious. A bountiful scent— _oh._

Bile burns at the back of your throat, but the laughter bubbles up. Slips from your lips, and the bullet in your arm hurts so much more than you thought it would.

"I hate y-you," you croak, then scream, tears clinging to your eyes. " _Both_  of you! I hate both of y—"

You wake up in a gray, bleak world with laughter in your ears.


	5. heartless

The sky is burnt orange, purple, dark blue. Sun disappearing in the distance, stars appearing, little white dots, and the moon slides slowly into place. A slight breeze brings the urban smell of a working city, summer baked, and you close your eyes and just. 

breathe.

You stretch, pop the joints in your back, along your spine, and settle against the worn wood. Blink your sky blue eyes open, slide them shut. Again. Take a long inhale, wish it'd fill you up, let you just  _pop_ and explode. Time to take it all slow, a crawl of ticking seconds.

"— _kid._ "

Slip an eye open, a sliver of ice.  _Ah._

"Kid, you can't stay here," the man says, sapphire eyes belying his concern. "I have to ask you to go home now."

Home. That's funny.

Sitting up, you yawn, then nod. You stand, peer briefly at the officer's name tag, before you stretch once more, eyes finding the even darker sky. Nearly all purple and dark blue. Unreal. You just wish you could pull down a hand full, let it trickle freely through your fingers, temper the anger that boils  _just_ beneath your skin. 

You stuff your hands into your pockets, and he gives you a wry smile. A glance over, and runs a hand through his blonde hair, wipes a faint sheen of sweat from his forehead.

There's a pause, and his eyebrows furrow after a moment, face drawing up in confusion. "Wait. Do I know you from somewhere? I feel like I know you somehow," he says, looks you over again.

You shrug. 

"Huh, maybe in another life or something," he wonders aloud, winks one blue eye. "Anyway, make it home safe, alright?

Your lips twitch the faintest bit.

"Will do, Officer Baxter."

~~_  
_~~


	6. home

It's thin here, opaque.

You can see faint shadows, walk back and forth. Away, and back. Grow small, and so very big, encompassing your gaze, and then disappear. Sometimes you sit for weeks, watch the flickering figures, arms pillowed atop your knees, head resting there.

Blue eyes shuttered, each green beat slow. Loud in the silence around you.

It gives little under your fingers, almost slimy, cool, and stretches beneath your nails. Conforms around a sharp poke, an angry cut, and continues to tease, mock your desperation.

You scratch at the wall. Let fingertips feather along the divide between, clench your jaw till the bone creaks, groans. It smothers the green, disperses the energy, and stands resolute under your straining palms.

Laughter. Laugh. Haha, hehe.

Warm against your forehead, it unravels the magick, lets your hair run white, and your skin a sickly grey-brown. Bleeds your eyes green, and your anger bright.

Time passes, has passed.

Long gone.

You stop coming. Stop itching at the thin, white skin of the division. Stop caring.

A ring sits there, left.

From this angle, it says,  _Wes._


End file.
